“And if your mother taught you this, then I want to meet her. And I want her working with us.”
Ethan blinked, like the world had suddenly changed languages.
That same night, Emily Reed received a call.
She was kneeling on marble floors on the seventh level of the Atlantic Building, scrubbing. Her hands smelled of detergent. Her back burned. When she saw an unknown number, she hesitated—unexpected calls rarely brought good news.
“Hello?” she answered, exhausted.
“Mrs. Reed, this is Laura Mitchell from Alden & Associates Construction. We need you to come to the Continental Tower immediately. Ethan is here. He’s fine—but please come now. A driver is on the way.”
Emily’s heart raced.
“What did my son do?”
“Nothing wrong,” Laura said quickly. “I promise. Please come.”
Seventeen minutes later, a luxury car picked her up. Emily looked down at her uniform, her short nails, her hands marked by years of double shifts. She felt ashamed stepping into the car—but the driver treated her with respect, as if she mattered.
The private elevator took her to the 43rd floor.